


Indelible Ink

by harpydora



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Finale AU, Self-Indulgent, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpydora/pseuds/harpydora
Summary: "It's a phenomenon the locals call 'Istus's brands,'" Lucretia tells them, reading the information from one of her journals. "Though it's usually attributed to Istus, there's a lot of debate about—" She clears her throat. "Um. Anyway. They commonly manifest sometime in the first decade of life, and short of amputation, there's no way to remove them."(Or:theStarblasterlands on a world where soulmates have each others' names written on their arms, and it goes about as well as one would expect.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Sacalow and the Art Zone discord for literally all of this.
> 
> As always, HorribleThing has provided the kindest encouragements.
> 
> Please come yell with me about Adventure Zone and Merle/John stuff over on [Tumblr](http://strangeharpy.tumblr.com/).

The twins notice first, and it goes something like this:

Davenport brings the _Starblaster_ down in a small clearing at the outskirts of a city near where they think the Light of Creation landed. The weather is warm, the sky is clear, and Lup declares it to be—on no uncertain terms— _too fucking hot._ She shucks off her uniform jacket and rolls up her sleeves, and it's there. Scrawled in gold ink with an unsteady hand on one forearm: Taako.

She scrubs at it with her jacket, but the ink won't budge. A quick _disguise self_ spell fizzles when she aims it at the text (which, oh boy, is Taako gonna pay for making her waste a spell slot). But before she can work up a good head of steam, Taako nearly crashes into her on the deck. One of his sleeves is pushed up past the elbow, and she catches a glimpse of golden ink.

It's her handwriting. It's her name. And she has no recollection of putting it there.

Softly, but with feeling, she says, "What the _fuck._ "

The rest of the crew notices, and they gather on the deck to compare notes. The findings are thus:

  * Taako and Lup are the only crew members with familiar names on their skin, and the only ones whose names are written in golden ink.
  * Magnus reveals a name on his forearm: "Julia," written in tidy, precise letters using a deep red.
  * Davenport requires cajoling before he admits to having "Leon" written in silver on his arm.
  * Lucretia declares that she found something that _may_ be "Maureen" on her arm, but the writing is so sloppy as to be difficult to read.
  * Merle says that he found a name on his person, but remains cagey about the details. (He assures everyone that it's no one on-board.)
  * Barry has no marks whatsoever.



And, most importantly:

  * None of them are able to get the markings off.



*

Lucretia is the first one to investigate the matter in town. It turns out that a curious mind, an unassuming demeanor, and a familiarity with library organizational systems across a dozen different planes is enough to get the basics.

"It's a phenomenon the locals call 'Istus's brands,'" she tells them, reading the information from one of her journals. "Though it's usually attributed to Istus, there's a lot of debate about—" She clears her throat. "Um. Anyway. They commonly manifest sometime in the first decade of life, and short of amputation, there's no way to remove them. And not everyone is destined to have one."

"It's bound to be something inherent in the prime material plane here," Barry says. "Once we crossed over, we became subject to these rules."

"Nerrrd," Lup drawls from where she's draped over one of Barry's shoulders. He flushes.

Merle makes an aggravated grunt from his chair. "Okay, great, we know that no one knows where they come from or why, but what do they _mean?_ "

"Ah, yes, that's something that's been extensively researched, thank Mystra." Lucretia thumbs through a couple of pages in her journal. "They usually indicate someone with whom you're destined to have some sort of deep connection. Like a soulmate. It's often romantic, but not always. You can tell by the color your partner's name is written in." She nods in Taako's direction, then Lup's. "Gold's like that. Not romantic, I mean."

"Guessing red's a romantic one," Magnus says, his hand rubbing at Julia's signature on his other arm.

" _That_ one's not hard," Merle grumps. "What about good ol' Cap'n-port over there? What's silver say about his love fortune?"

"Oh, those are the fun ones!" Lucretia says with a cheerful grin. "Those are the ones where it could go multiple ways. It depends on what happens after you meet whether it'll be romantic or not, and then the color on your skin will settle out. So it just goes to show that even the hand of Istus isn't set in stone! I mean, if it really _is_ her doing."

They learn other things that cycle, too:

  * The locals are distrustful of strangers without a brand, something that Barry takes poorly.
  * That being said, one's brand is considered a personal thing, and local fashion dictates that they be covered in public.
  * Taako takes this to mean that the entire crew needs arm warmers.
  * None of them meet their brandmates (as the locals call it).
  * The Light fell into a sacred lake, and no amount of begging, pleading, or wheedling will get them access.
  * No one manages to find out whose name Merle has written on his arm.



When the Hunger inevitably finds them, they have no choice but to leave the world to its fate. Merle invokes parley, keeping his jacket on this time. Upon waking up in the next cycle, he checks his arm while no one is paying attention.

It's still there. Written in silver, with a bit of a flourish, is the name "John." He swears.

*

Whatever force that causes the brands doesn't seem to fade even though they've landed in a dozen different planes since. If these things _are_ the work of Istus, Merle decides she has a cruel sense of humor.

Of course, sitting across the table from John, it's difficult not to imagine that _everyone_ has a cruel sense of humor. Istus. Pan. John. _Especially_ John. The way he rolls one of the captured chess pieces between his fingers, then raises it to his lips as he plans his next move… it's intentional. It has to be. He's mocking Merle, and there's nothing Merle can do but sit there and glare.

"You seem perturbed," John notes as he sets the chess piece aside. "Is there something on your mind?"

"Fuck off," Merle snaps. He crosses his arms over his chest and continues to glare.

John grins, slow and wicked. "Now, now, there's no need to be such a sore loser. Though, if you're sure that you're sick of our game…" He raises a hand, fingers poised to snap.

It's tempting to let John immolate him just so he can escape this stupid, awful situation. But John hasn't answered his question yet, so Merle holds up both of his hands in defeat. "Whoa, there. Let's not be too hasty. I never said we were finished."

"No, but you seem… _disinclined_ to play, shall we say." John reaches for a pawn and advances it. "You know the rules: I ask and you answer. Then you ask and I answer. So, tell me, what do you find so troublesome that you can't be bothered to play properly?"

Merle winces but doesn't uncross his arms. "Is that really what you're going with? Not askin' about what our ship is made of or what my bank account number is?"

"Hah!" John smothers the bark of laughter behind one hand, and Merle can't help but notice how long and elegant John's fingers are. "Oh, Merle, it's always a joy to talk with you. Don't you realize that I'll find these things out soon enough? Is it really so inconceivable that I might be curious about you on a personal level?"

 _Yeah,_ Merle doesn't say. "You never struck me as the caring type." Which is almost the same.

"You wound me. One of the benefits of being legion is a boundless curiosity." John picks up the captured piece again—one of Merle's bishops, slender and carved out of ivory—and resumes rolling it between his fingers. "And you are a curiosity. Year after year, you come back to me. Keep me company. Remind me why I do what I do. It is very reasonable that I would want to know what worries you. Aren't we on a journey of mutual discovery and understanding?"

"You sure are asking a lot of questions," says Merle with a scowl.

John waves off Merle's objection with the bishop. "All rhetorical, I assure you. Merely demonstrating my point. My earlier question still stands. What is on your mind?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and rolling the bishop between his palms. The motion is far more distracting than it has any right to be, and it takes a few seconds for Merle to realize that John had continued, "You've been a little reticent the past few years. It's enough to make a man think he's being given the cold shoulder."

Merle fights the urge to rub at the damnable writing on his forearm; it's a nasty habit he's developed since the brand appeared, and it's the last thing he needs to be doing while John stares at him so intently. He compromises by hunching his shoulders and scowling. "Pick somethin' else."

Something that looks suspiciously like disappointment clouds John's face. "Oh. Oh, Merle, it doesn't work that way. Didn't we agree that the only way this would work is if we were both truthful with each other?"

"I _am_ bein' truthful. I don't wanna talk about it."

John hums and brings the bishop back to his lips, and Merle's eyes track the motion. The way the polished ivory contrasts with the skin of John's bottom lip is absolutely not lost on him. Fuck.

"This won't do," John says after a moment. "I can't have you reneging on our deal. You're obviously not interested in letting me kill you just yet, but you say you don't want to talk about whatever it is that's plaguing you."

 _There are probably a million Johns in the universe,_ Merle thinks, _but it just had to be_ you. But he keeps his mouth shut. Gods, what a mess.

John is undeterred. He taps the bishop against his chin and Merle wants to strangle him just to put him out of Merle's misery. "This started about a decade ago," he muses. "I remember you being surly because I won that particular round. Are you holding a grudge?" When Merle doesn't respond, John sighs. "All right. Not a grudge then. But something happened. What could that have been?"

"Nothing," Merle grumbles. "Not a damn thing."

Except, in speaking, he's given John ammunition. "Ah, but I thought we agreed to not to lie here?" He leans across the chessboard and takes Merle's chin in one hand. "Look me in the eye and tell me again that nothing happened."

The touch is so startling that Merle doesn't resist John tilting his face up. John's eyes are dark and intense, focused solely on Merle. He tries to shy away, but John's grip on his chin is like steel. The weight of John's gaze keeps him pinned in his chair like a butterfly in display, and Pan help him, he feels like everything in his mind _is_ on display.

They stay like this in silence, John searching Merle's face for a sign of an answer, Merle doing his damnedest not to give anything more away. Their chess game stands between them, lonely and forgotten.

It's Merle who finally breaks the stalemate. He brings his right arm up to knock John's hand away. He doesn't even _think_ about it. His sleeve rides up as he completes the motion, and he realizes the error as soon as he sees the subtle widening of John's eyes. He pushes himself away from the table so quickly he almost topples over backwards. His left hand yanks at the hem of his jacket sleeve, but the damage is done.

John lunges forward and catches Merle's wrist before he can jerk away again. He holds Merle's arm up at an angle that borders on uncomfortable, but if he notices Merle wincing, he pays it no mind. John's focus is entirely on Merle's arm. His other hand grabs Merle's sleeve and shoves it out of the way.

His eyes lock on the brand. Everything goes deathly still.

With a shaking voice, Merle breaks the silence. "There are millions of Johns out there. It doesn't mean anything." But the words ring even more hollow now that he says them aloud.

Slowly, as if he might get burned, John traces the silvery lines on Merle's forearm. His attention is transfixed, and so is Merle's. The touch sends a shiver up Merle's spine. It's feather-light, but somehow it carries more weight than anything Merle has felt before. He swallows thickly and tries to speak again, "It doesn't mean anything. They said the silver ones are for people who don't know. I know it ain't you."

John closes his eyes, lets his finger trace his name one last time, drops Merle's arm. In fact, he drops everything: his shoulders slump, his face falls, he slides back into his chair. Merle knew he'd been middle-aged by the time he became the Hunger, but now he just looks… old. Tired. Sad.

"Don't lie to me, Merle," he says, voice flat. "That isn't what silver brands mean."

Merle grimaces, his hand covering the brand and rubbing at it absently. His own skin against it feels dull compared to the thrill of John's fingertips. Fuck. Damn it.

John continues, "I was there, Merle. I am multitudinous and I know all there is to know about these things. I know that silver brands mean that you haven't decided what I mean to you. And don't try to pretend that isn't my name. That's exactly how I wrote it, when I was still discrete."

There isn't anything to say that wouldn't be a lie, so Merle keeps his mouth shut. He could try to keep protesting, but he'd known as soon as the brand had appeared. Oh, how he'd prayed. For the brand to be erased, for his gut to be wrong. But the brand stayed and with each subsequent parley, Merle's instincts shouted the truth that John just spoke.

Into the yawning silence between them, John spits, "After so many millennia, it had to be _you._ "

That startles a laugh out of Merle. "Hey, you say that like I'm not just as thrilled as you are, buddy."

The smile John flashes is crooked and weary, but he doesn't make a snappy comeback. Instead, he extends a hand across the table. "May I see it?"

Merle opens his mouth to snap, to say something like _you just saw it, wasn't that enough?_ But John looks so defeated, and his request is so simple. It's hard to justify refusing it when the worst John can do is kill him, something they are both already well-acquainted with. So he shuffles off his jacket and lays his right wrist on John's waiting palm.

It's been years since Merle has left his forearm exposed like this, and in some ways he feels more vulnerable like this than the time he had to run away from some world's natives without any clothes on. The ink on his arm remains steadfastly silver even in the orange glow of the setting sun. No trick of the light can make the letters appear any color other than what they are. They are inescapable and indelible.

This time, when John rests his fingertips against the lines, Merle hears John sigh. It sounds less relieved and more broken, as if Merle's skin has somehow betrayed him. Though Merle supposed he could sympathize; he's felt plenty betrayed by that patch of skin himself. Feeling it even moreso with the way John's fingers feel so pleasant resting there like they were meant exclusively for that purpose.

John flattens his palm and covers his name with it, a mirror of the way Merle sometimes hides it when he's nervous. But this isn't born of nerves, or even a desire to obscure. Somehow, Merle knows that John is feeling it out, tugging at the edges of… whatever it is that connects them. Trying to understand it.

Finally, John heaves another sigh. "It's been millennia, Merle," he reiterates. "Thousands of years, I've been working toward this goal. I've been set on a path and I have never strayed. And yet here you come, trying to pull me away."

"'Course I've been tryin' to pull you away," Merle says. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth. John's hand is so warm. "I kinda like the universe as-is."

The smile on John's face is half-hearted at best, weighed down by something that Merle hesitates to name. He rubs Merle's brand with slow deliberation, sending a thread of warmth running up his arm to coil deep in his chest. Merle's breath hitches around it. He tries to speak. Fails. Tries again. "Maybe that's what it means. I'm here to stop you."

"Now you're just lying to yourself. This only proves that fate is a cruel being, if it exists." The smile fades, and John's hand stills. "You can feel it as well as I can. Where were you before this began? Why couldn't I have met you then?" He withdraws and leaves Merle's arm resting on the table. "Well, you've answered my question now. What do you want to know?"

He wants to know a lot of things: why is John doing this, why did Istus (or whoever) decide to do this to him, what does he need to do to end all of this? But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is: "You were there, too. Did you get a brand?"

John's face clouds over, his expression shuttered. "Sometimes we don't always get the answers we want," John says. Then he snaps his fingers and the warmth in Merle's chest turns to fire.

*

The next parleys are sober affairs, and neither of them mention the brand again. Not even when Merle asks if they are friends. Not even when John finally explains his plan. Not even when John kills him for the last time.

Things progress. Time moves forward and it looks something like this:

  * It isn't uncommon for people to ask about Merle's arm; he tends to keep it covered to spare himself the attention, but those he considers friends and family have all asked.
  * His forearm is a mass of scar tissue, mottled with white and pink.
  * He doesn't remember how he came to get it, but Magnus and Taako show him their own scars and he feels a little better.
  * There's a weird sort of symmetry to it, the way that the three of them have matching scars and matching silver bracers.



They fight. They live. They become friends and gain a purpose and do everything they can to save the world.

And then they remember, and everything goes to hell.

*

John sits on the beach, his back to Merle and face toward the sun."Merle, will you sit with me? Just… just for a moment." He pats the sand next to himself in invitation.

Maybe there should be some sort of hesitation, but there's not. There's only a sense of melancholy and missed opportunities. "Sure thing, buddy." He plops down close enough that his shoulder brushes John's. He kicks off his shoes and digs his toes into the sand. If this is a hallucination or an illusion cast by John, he at least had the decency to get the feel of sand between his toes right.

John mirrors him, pushing his toes into the sand and letting out a little sigh. It's the only sound Merle hears other than the gentle lapping of the waves. The tide's going out, and each successive wave pulls further and further away. That bit's a little unnatural, but Merle isn't going to call John on his theatrics. Not now.

After a while, John says, "I wish things had been different." He turns to face Merle, and it's impossible to miss the lines that pain have drawn on his face. It looks like a war is happening behind his eyes, but he reaches a conclusion. "May I… may I ask one more question?"

"We're kinda past that, ain't we?" Merle mutters, but the words are not unkind.

John must hear the dregs of fondness, because he shifts closer and reaches for Merle's soulwood hand. Merle doesn't stop him, so John winds his fingers with Merle's and tugs his arm closer. Then he rests his other palm flat against Merle's forearm. "Before I go, can you tell me… did your brand ever change colors?"

Merle makes a strangled noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, because _of course_ John would ask. "I went almost a decade with my brains scrambled, and then my arm got chopped off. I'm doing good to remember your name."

"Do you think—" But John stops himself, the question dying on his lips. Instead, he lets his head droop forward. "No. I suppose not."

They lapse back into silence then, wrapped up in a companionable sadness. Merle lets some of his weight rest on John's arm, and John keeps his palm pressed to the place where Merle's brand should have been.

The tide ebbs. The sun sets. Its light fades.

John is gone.

Merle flexes his soulwood fingers and does not let himself wonder what they could have had.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought to myself "ooh, I'll just post like, a chapter a week." Y'all can see how well that worked out for me. :P Though, I'm about to be not paying attention to the internet for a bit, so it'll almost certainly be more than a week between chapters now.
> 
> Took some minor liberties with canon for the sake of making a joke. Otherwise, this bit should be largely canon-compliant.
> 
> Still [on Tumblr](http://strangeharpy.tumblr.com/). Still happy to yell with folks about John/Merle or TAZ or various other things.

A part of Merle still wonders, some months down the line, if John chose a beach because he knew Merle had grown up on one. That beach is long gone—or rather, Merle is long gone from that beach—but he thinks he finds some parts of shoreline that look sort of like the place he and John had not-said goodbye.

He settles himself on a sand dune that overlooks one such place. The sun isn't going to set for a few hours yet, but it's easy to imagine how it will look when splashed with the orange light. He's spent more time than he wants to admit imagining such things. In the distance, Mookie shouts something followed by a squawk that must be Mavis's response. A wave of fondness rolls over him, leaving him smiling and shaking his head.

Merle doesn't know how much time passes (the sun is still high in the sky, so it can't be long), but eventually he hears something above the lapping of the waves. It's difficult to place at first, but then he realizes what it is: the sound of someone floundering in the water.

His eyes scan the waves, searching, and then he sees it: a few hundred yards off, a man is flailing as he tries to haul himself out of the ocean and fails. Miserably.

Merle's on his feet and halfway to the water's edge before anything else can register, but when it does, the shock of it nearly sends Merle pitching face-first into the sand. He catches himself before he can trip, but his pace slows just a hair. The man in the water is human, middle-aged, with salt-and pepper hair and skin shot through with ugly red scarring, wearing the remnants of what had been—at one point in its distant past—a very sharp suit.

"John!" Merle shouts, waving his arms frantically to get his attention. The man's—John's—head snaps up, and he locks eyes with Merle. By the time Merle's wades out to him, John has already pulled himself mostly out of the water, but he slumps heavily into Merle's arms as Merle drags him into the sandy shore.

"Holy shit, John, what the hell?!" The demand is a lot harsher than Merle intends, but fuck it, he thinks he's earned the right to be a little harsh. He hefts John up into a sitting position and pats him down, looking for signs of injury. Finding none, and hearing John's breathing settle into something sort of like normal, he demands again, "What the hell?"

John coughs and splutters for a moment before he can speak. "I… don't know." His voice cracks as if from misuse or no use or some combination of the two. He clears his throat. "I asked you a question and then… nothing. And then I was nowhere. Then I was here."

"Shit. Okay. Shit." Merle glances around for signs of anyone else. He can't even hear Mavis and Mookie. They've probably gone back to the inn they'd decided to 'make camp' at. So no help there. "Can you stand?"

There's a moment where John looks indignant, but his expression quickly shifts to distress when he scrambles to get his legs beneath him. "No," John admits.

"You hurt?" Merle asks, running his hands over John again. The scar tissue certainly would seem to indicate he _had_ been hurt, and gods knew Merle and his friends had certainly inflicted plenty of damage, but—

Merle's fingers brush John's forearm and they both jerk away. Merle feels like he's licked a magic wand, and John looks like his body has committed the worst imaginable betrayal.

"What—?" But Merle realizes that he knows the answer before he's even finished the question. He reaches for John's arm, and John doesn't resist. Instead, he just stares on in poorly concealed horror.

"Merle…" John's voice is strangled and tight.

"You said you didn't have one," Merle accuses. He takes hold of John's wrist with one hand and uses the other to unbutton his cuff. John doesn't resist as Merle's fingers fumble at his waterlogged shirt sleeve. After what feels like an eon fussing with uncooperative fabric, Merle pushes the sleeve up to John's elbow.

He knew what he would see, and yet the reality of it, scrawled so clearly in dark red ink, is still somehow shocking.

"I said that sometimes we don't get the answers we want," John whispers. He doesn't move. "I was more than just myself, but I could feel the mark on me somewhere. I just didn't understand fully… until I saw yours. Until then, I… it was just an excuse to toy with you. It didn't matter. Or that's what I thought."

Merle nods, though he isn't paying too much attention to John's words. Instead, he's studying his signature, the way the ink seems to glimmer, the way it drifts off to one side (he's never been great with keeping his handwriting on the same level). He runs his thumb over the tail of the final _e,_ taking note of how the ink feels warmer than the surrounding skin. John's breath shudders out of him, but he says nothing more.

When Merle looks up, he sees John's expression, unguarded and open. There's hope, there's fear, there's uncertainty. Cut away from his multitudes, John is just a man. A man with a brand that matches the one Merle had once had.

A wet, bedraggled man sitting awkwardly in the sand, getting crustier by the minute.

"Um." Merle shifts John's arm so to rests over his shoulders. "Listen. Uh. I'm pretty sure we've got a lot to talk about, but let's do it somewhere not so sandy. You can't stand, so… uh. Fuck, this is so awkward." Before John can answer (and before Merle can lose his nerve), he scoops John up bridal-style.

"Okay, just hold tight," Merle mutters, mostly to himself. John complies anyway, slinging his other arm over Merle's shoulders. "We got a room up at the inn over there, so we can get you cleaned up. Maybe fed. When was the last time you ate—uh, nevermind. We'll just get you some food. And clean clothes. And—"

John interrupts him. "Who's 'we'? Are… are your other friends here?"

Merle shakes his head. Ugh, John's heavy. "Nah. Just me and my kids. Listen, I know you were a public speaker and all, but did you happen to pick up any wizard stuff? Got a levitation spell in you or somethin'?"

"Kids." The word sounds distant and vaguely terrified. "You're a _father?_ "

"Jeez, you don't gotta say it like that," Merle grumps. Not only is John heavy, but the inn is at the top of a hill.

"I never pegged you as the family type."

"Yeah, and I never pegged you as the type of guy to get hauled around by a guy who used to be your enemy sort of but might still be your soulmate. So I guess we're even." Merle knows he's babbling, but he can't help it. It's easier than actually thinking about the ridiculous situation. "Besides, when we were doing our thing, I _wasn't_ the family type. Sometimes people change. Sometimes they realize that they fucked up some stuff and they have to make it right."

"Yes. That is a fair assessment."

*

Thankfully, blessedly, Pan is smiling on his buddy Merle today, because they make it to the inn without incident and neither Mavis nor Mookie catch sight of their father hauling around a sopping wet, sand-and-salt-encrusted human. The innkeeper is gracious enough to provide fresh towels and a set of pyjamas in approximately John's size, and she doesn't comment when Merle stumbles into the bathing area and locks the door behind him.

He sets John down next to the tub and slumps into a gasping heap at his side.

"Not as spry as you were a hundred years ago?" John remarks, though there's none of the venom Merle would've expected from him a couple of decades ago.

"Says the guy who can't figure out how to work his legs." Merle puts his head between his knees as he tries to catch his breath. "You're lucky I don't toss you back out in the water."

"You wouldn't."

Merle scoffs. "Oh yeah? You almost got me and my friends killed, and you _definitely_ are responsible for the ends of a bunch of worlds. Be doin' this place a favor if I set you out for the tide to pick up." And, oh, these words are complicated things because—Pan help him—he _is_ still angry about these things. But he doesn't mean them, he doesn't think. Still, he glances over at John's profile as if it has any answers.

"Well, if nothing else, you spent all that effort to get me up here so I doubt you'll just throw me back out again." John chuckles. It's almost bitter, but not quite. "At least, not right now." There's a small smile on his face, so at least he seems to have taken Merle's words in stride.

"Ah, shit. Got me there. Gotta wait 'til you can walk again and I'll just make you walk your own damn self back to the water."

John hums. "Not giving me much incentive to work on that, you know."

"Whatever." Merle waves a hand dismissively. "I'm more worried about how you're gonna get scraped off without drowning. This tub is gigantic."

"Everything looks gigantic when you're only three and a half feet tall, Merle."

Merle may be out of breath, but he's not so winded as to be unable to punch John in the arm. Gently. With feeling. "Just for that, I'm gonna drown your sorry ass in the bath."

"You've got to draw a bath first before you can drown me in it," John says, but he's smiling.

With some effort, they somehow manage to fill the tub. Getting John out of his clothing (though he insists on keeping his boxers) and into the water, on the other hand, proves to be a bit more of an adventure. In a fit of frustration, Merle strips to his skivvies, climbs into the tub, and hauls John in with him despite a squawk of protest. The water sloshes over the side, the tub having been filled based on the idea of holding only one person.

Merle grimaces. His arm is soaked. "Ugh, I'll spend weeks pruning this thing," he laments. He taps on it in a few places and it releases itself from the stump that remained after the amputation. The arm sketches a vague wave in John's direction before Merle sets it out of the splash zone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches John staring. His expression is shuttered, but it isn't hard to guess why when he can tell exactly where John's gaze has fallen. He turns, intent on making a joke, saying something to snap John out of whatever mood has taken him, but he stops.

John is covered in a mess of scars. The ones that had been visible when he was clothed look downright mild compared to the jagged, angry red flesh covering most of his abdomen and torso. Not even thinking, Merle reaches for one on John's side. It's a gnarled knot of scar tissue that radiates lines up John's ribcage. The flesh is smooth to the touch, but John flinches away.

"Fuck," John breathes just as Merle stammers, "Sorry."

John closes his eyes and shakes his head. "No. It's… it's fine. Sorry. Just." He tilts his head in the direction of Merle's arm. "Part of me thought you weren't… I shouldn't have. You hadn't lied to me before. I had just hoped…"

Merle shakes his head. "It's fine. I'm over it. But shit, John, what happened? Is that—did _we_ do that?"

"No," John says without hesitation. "That was… that was me. Or rather what I got for trying to fight the momentum I'd built up over the ages. Maybe it's better to call it hubris." He chuckles to himself, a quiet and bitter sound. "But what's done is done."

"I'm sorry," Merle repeats because it seems like the thing to say. But it just draws another bitter laugh from John.

"What a pair we make," John says as he runs his hand through his damp hair. Merle catches a glimpse of the red ink and feels his heart clench. Pan help him.

He doesn't know what possesses him; whether it's Pan nudging him forward, or Istus moving his hand, or his own tangled emotions trying to find release. It doesn't matter. The result is the same. Merle reaches out and takes John's wrist in his hand. Without his soulwood arm, he can't lay his other palm on the brand, so he brings John's arm toward himself and rests his cheek against the crimson letters of his name.

Suddenly, the world feels warm, like lying on the beach when the sun coming out on a pleasant spring day. The warmth seeps right through him, into the marrow of his bones. And he thinks _oh, this is what it feels like_ because he understands now why John had wanted to touch his own brand when he'd still had it.

He sort of feels John, knows without looking that he's trying not to squirm. Can't decide if he would want to pull away or move closer. Doesn't know if he's being mocked or if this is really happening. Gods, was this what John had been feeling from Merle all those years ago?

No—what Merle had felt then was far less eager. John is unsure, but he definitely _wants._ And, unlike years ago, Merle finds that he wants, too.

He turns his head. His lips brush the outer edge of John's brand. The contact is electric, and he feels John's entire body stiffen. Thickly, and with great effort, John croaks, "Merle."

Merle looks up. His name hadn't meant _stop,_ exactly, but it was definitely more than just his name. He meets John's eyes, finds them to be half-lidded and dark with that same wanting he'd just felt. "Yeah?"

As if he hadn't expected a response, John spends a moment visibly floundering with his words. Merle waits, running his thumb idly over the bottom of John's brand. It's probably petty, but Merle is starting to enjoy the faces John makes when he can't concentrate, and—fuck.

John uses Merle's hold on his arm against him, pulling him closer and dragging him off-balance so Merle has no choice but to let go of John's arm and fall against John's chest. This close, he can feel the rapid thundering of John's heartbeat. He glances up to watch John's expression. "What—"

And that's when John kisses him.

It's not a _surprise,_ exactly. To be a surprise, you shouldn't be able to see it coming. But there's still a shocking component to it, like neither of them can actually believe it's happening. That keeps the kiss short: a chaste press of lips for a moment, then it's done. They stare at each other, wide-eyed and frozen in place.

Merle isn't sure who bends first, but they're kissing again and this time is much less chaste. On a whim, Merle takes John's bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, just a little. Beneath him, John goes rigid, heart hammering a staccato that Merle can feel. Merle takes advantage of John's sudden stillness to find John's arm with his good hand and feel along it until he finds John's brand. Before John can try to shift away, he flattens his palm over it.

Things are difficult to parse out after that. John is hardly difficult to read right then, but all of his emotions come rushing over Merle when his skin makes contact with the red ink: confusion, hope, and doubt swirl together within the current of desire. One of them wants; the other obliges. John's other hand is in Merle's hair, cupping the base of his skull. Merle's tongue nudges John's lips apart. There's a thrill of elation, a headrush that leaves them breathless and panting when they break apart.

"Merle," John says, but there is nothing particularly complicated about it now. It's half _that was amazing_ and half _please, more._

"Yeah," Merle agrees. And then he obliges.

*

Mavis and Mookie have "made camp" in a room with the other youngsters who've joined them on this particular outing, and Merle had insisted on getting a room of his own for a number of reasons. One of which had _not_ been named "John." But now that John is there, Merle finds himself grateful for his foresight.

John's still too addled to do much more than making out a little before needing some rest, but that's fine. Once the bath has been drained and John has been deposited into his borrowed PJs, Merle helps him to his room— _their_ room, now—and turns down the bed for him. John's asleep long before Merle's finished doing an initial plucking of the buds that have started to come up since he watered his wooden arm.

Still, in the quiet, Merle can't help but say a small prayer to himself as he works. Or rather, to Pan:

_If you're listening, O Pan, it's your buddy Merle. I know I don't ask for a lot these days, but if you could find it in yourself to do me a favor… Let me have that stupid brand back. I know I begged and begged for it to go away, and now I'm really sorry. But… It'd mean a lot._

That done, he scoops up all the little buds and tosses them in the trash before planting his arm in its pot for the night.

He thinks about climbing into the bed next to John, but then thinks better of it. That'd be too much, too soon. The sofa on the other side of the room is comfortable enough, so he curls up there with a spare blanket and drifts off to sleep.

The next morning comes slowly, and even though it's well past dawn when Merle finally wakes up, John's still fast asleep. Which is just as well; it gives Merle a chance to go through his morning routine and pray for his spells before he has to deal with… things.

When Merle takes his arm from its pot, he realizes that he will need to deal with them sooner rather than later: wreathed in pink and white flowers, John's name is written on his forearm.

In red ink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Sorry this took so long?
> 
> I'm mostly yelling about other things on [Tumblr](http://strangeharpy.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/harpydora), but I'm still always happy to engage in TAZ and/or John/Merle discussion.

It's easy to think he has a handle on the situation in the time before John finally wakes up. Maybe, in another universe, Merle _would_ have had a handle on the situation because, in that universe, John would have woken up and he and Merle would have had a reasonable discussion of their situation. They would have aired any residual grievances. They would have come to an agreement on how to move forward.

In this universe, though, John's awakening goes something like this:

  * At around half-past ten, Mavis knocks on the door.
  * John wakes with a start and falls out of the bed.
  * The resulting _thud_ and curse is loud enough to be heard by half the occupants of the inn.
  * Fearing for their father's safety, Mookie and Mavis kick the door in.



And, while Merle is pretty sure he'd love it if Pan struck him dead right then and there (he doesn't want to explain any of this to either of his children), he's at least proud of the fact that Mavis's sword arm never wavers, and Mookie has taken a proper stance for punching someone's lights out.

"Now, hold on," Merle says, holding up his hands in the universal gesture of _calm the hell down._ "Mookie, Mavie…"

"Dad, that's _John,_ " Mavis hisses, swinging around to point her sword at the pile of blankets, limbs, and indignation on the floor.

John, for his part, has enough sense to remain still, but it isn't enough to deter the kids. Mookie growls and lunges toward him, fists raised. Thankfully, Merle is close enough to snatch his son by the back of his collar and haul him back.

"Yes, I know it's John, and no one is going to attack anyone else until I say so, all right?" Merle holds him at arm's length to avoid catching a flailing limb to the face. "Mavie, baby, can you please put that thing down?"

Mavis glares down at John. "Dad, I love you, but I am _not_ going to put this down until you explain why we shouldn't beat this guy up right now."

John glances up at Merle. "Your children are lovely." It's impossible to tell if he's joking by his tone.

At the sound of his voice, Mavis tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword. "Quiet, villain," she snaps. Mookie stills in Merle's grip, so he lets his son go. He rushes to his sister's side.

Merle wonders fleetingly if he can ask Pan to come down to the prime material plane and do… something. Anything to bail Merle out of having to explain himself to his children. But that would be abusing their friendship, especially after Pan came through for him once today already. So he takes a deep breath.

"Listen, kids… I know you all know what happened before… well, before. And I'm not gonna pretend that those weren't bad times and that John didn't do bad things. But the stuff you didn't see is the part where he came through at the end to tell us how to beat the Hunger before it could kill us." He pauses. Waits for a sign that his words are sinking in.

Mavis doesn't lower her blade, but she does cast a look in Merle's direction. "Just because he changed his mind at the end doesn't make up for what he did. He killed a lot of people." Her voice hitches and Merle thinks _oh no._ "He killed _you._ A lot."

She isn't crying, but Merle isn't so thick as to miss how she's on the edge. Out of the corner of his eye, Merle sees John wince, but he is at least smart enough to realize that there is nothing he can say now that wouldn't make things worse.

"Oh, Mavie," Merle says. "It's okay. I'm not dead now, and if it wasn't for John, I never would've been here with you. That don't make up for all the shit he pulled, but don't you think it's a good reason to let him try to make things better?" He opens his arms wide in invitation. "C'mere. I promise nothing bad is gonna happen if you put down that sword and come give me a hug. You too, Mookie."

There are a few tense moments in which Merle is convinced there is nothing he can say or do to convince his children not to attack. But then Mavis sheathes her blade and closes the distance between them. Mookie is less circumspect, choosing to throw himself at Merle with enough force to nearly knock him on his ass. He pulls both of them close, hugging them just as fiercely as they hug him.

Over their heads, he locks eyes with John. He tilts his head toward the door and lifts his eyebrows and hopes against hope that John gets the idea. John is blissfully quick on the uptake, and he kicks off the blankets so he can scuttle out of the room while Mavis and Mookie are none the wiser.

Well, Mookie, anyway. Mavis squirms out of his embrace after a moment and crosses her arms over her chest in an unfortunate imitation of her mother. "Thanks, Dad. Now I'm going to have trust issues if you ever want to hug me when I'm armed. What's going on here? Didn't you say you were training the next generation of adventurers to make sure the world is a better place?" She inherited _that tone_ from her mother, too.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean just murdering someone in cold blood."

"It was _going_ to be a crime of passion," Mavis mutters, making a sour face.

Merle sighs and runs his soulwood hand through his hair. "I'm serious, Mavis. That whole 'stab first, ask questions later' attitude is no good. Maybe if I'd thought about my actions more, some of the bad shit that happened to me wouldn't have."

"Sounds fake," Mookie lisps. He ducks out from under Merle's other arm and scampers over to his sister's side again.

"You say that like we don't already _know_ all the crummy choices you've—" Mavis cuts herself off, eyes widening. "Oh my gods, _Dad._ "

Merle freezes. What had she seen? He glances around the room, trying to figure out what could have caught her attention. "Uh, yeah?"

And then he realizes the position his arm is in.

Softly, but with feeling, he says, " _Shit._ "

*

They sit at a small table, bowls of porridge rapidly cooling in front of them. Mavis has thrown a handful of raisins into her breakfast and has been picking away at it, but Merle's and John's are untouched. It worries Merle a bit that a person formerly known as "the Hunger" has yet to eat anything since he reappeared. It's something to address later, though. Mavis's glare is a little more frightening.

"Dad." The word sounds like an accusation. Merle winces.

"You already know why you shouldn't stab my _friend,_ " he says, putting enough emphasis on the last word to make John flinch. "I don't know why we need to keep talking about it."

"Dad," she says again. As if that's all the argument she needs to make. And… well, she isn't wrong about any of John's actions, at least not from before. But it's plain as day that John is so very not-what-he-was.

"Mavis… he's. He deserves a chance."

"I'm not going to stab him, since he's your brandmate or whatever," she grumbles. "But that doesn't mean me or Mookie have to like him."

Merle huffs out a relieved breath. It isn't exactly ideal, but it's a start. "Okay. That's fair." He looks over at John. "That sound fair to you?"

"Perfectly," John mumbles toward his porridge.

Dear Pan, Merle would have gladly given his right arm to see John this cowed a few decades ago, but now it just makes his heart clench in his chest. Reflexively, his hand goes to rub his right forearm.

The movement isn't lost on Mavis. She narrows her eyes. "So does this mean you have a boyfriend now?"

Merle chokes and John splutters. "What—" "I don't think—" "It's a little too soon to—" "No, I—" But no amount of talking over each other makes Mavis stop _looking_ at them like she's caught them with their hands in the cookie jar.

At some length, she takes a deep breathe and sets down her spoon. "Dad, I love you a lot, and you're my hero. You're also an adult and you can make your own choices. But I'm keeping an eye on you, and if anything funny is going on…" She pats the pommel of her sword, which rests leaned up against her leg. "Got it?"

John nods solemnly. "Yes."

Mavis returns his nod, gathers up her sword, and hops out of the chair. "All right, well, I'm going to lead a beach expedition with Mookie. You two stay out of trouble." She doesn't wait for a response before she makes her way back toward the "camp" room.

"Your children are certainly… passionate," John says in her wake. His skin looks pale, especially near the seams of angry scar tissue. It makes him seem so vulnerable. A word Merle never expected to associate with John.

"Yeah, they sure are somethin'," Merle agrees. Then: "Hey, John, you all right? You haven't touched your food."

"I suppose that's something I have to do again, isn't it?" John says, prodding at his bowl with his spoon.

"Yeah, it kinda is."

This doesn't seem to encourage John. "Merle… this is… a lot to take in."

"Yeah, you're not wrong, buddy." Merle offers up what he hopes is an encouraging smile. John doesn't respond immediately, instead continuing to focus on what's in the bowl in front of him. Fuck. "You all right?"

"Merle, until yesterday, I think I might have been dead. I'm having a bit of a hard time adjusting." The words should have sounded irate or irritated or _something,_ but mostly they are just tired.

"Yeah. Um. Sorry." Merle rubs at his brand for a second before realizing what he's doing and resolutely balling both of his hands into fists. "This wasn't how I was hopin' this morning would go."

"Things don't tend to go the way we want them," John says.

"Well, yeah. I wanted this to be a nice, quiet run with these little scamps. We'd run around on the beach and then I'd tell 'em stories by the campfire while they're roasting marshmallows. Maybe I'd sneak some hooch and then Mavie would figure it out and dump it in the ocean before Mookie steals it." Merle shrugs. "But you showed up, and whatever, it's fine. We'll deal with it."

John scoffs. "You're making it sound like, somehow, you're the one who's absolutely cut adrift here. I was _dead yesterday,_ Merle. I feel like I can't emphasize that enough."

"Yeah, and I've been dead _lotsa_ times. What's your point?"

"If we're having this discussion, I feel like my point has already been missed." John sets his utensil down in disgust.

"No, I'm not missing anything. You were dead yesterday, and yesterday I didn't have this." Merle extends his soulwood arm across the table in front of John, brand facing up. There's a little twinge of satisfaction when he sees John's eyes widen. Maybe it's petty, but Magnus was always the noble one, not him. And Magnus isn't here. "Whatever happens, we're in this together, all right? If you're 'cut adrift' or whatever, you're floating out to sea with me, got it?"

Hesitantly (and, gods, there's another vulnerable word), John rests his fingertips on Merle's wrist. He doesn't touch the ink, but he stares at it so hard that it's almost a physical weight. "I'm getting sick of the ocean and ocean metaphors," he says.

"I'm a beach dwarf, Johnny boy," Merle says with a wry smile. "That's kinda my thing. 'Sides, you started it. I'm just finishing."

John's face twists like he's sucked on a lemon. "Not even my mother called me 'Johnny,' and I think we are both well beyond boyhood." His fingers creep toward the trailing _n_ of his name but still don't quite touch it. "What makes you think you can get away with it?"

"You haven't stopped me yet."

"Well, it looks like I have the chance to fix that oversight." He turns his head, dragging his eyes away from the new brand on Merle's arm. "What are we doing here? Talking like this is the Parley Parlor, I mean. This—this isn't like old times. What are we doing?" There is a rising edge of panic to John's voice.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Merle says in the most soothing tone be can manage. Which probably isn't that soothing, but hey, he's got to try. "Yeah, okay, you were dead yesterday and I didn't think that I would ever see you again, but what we're doing now is getting you breakfast and then we'll figure out the details from there."

*

John eats, though it's obvious he doesn't care for it. Merle pushes more porridge, some fruits, and bits of bacon and sausage on him, and to his credit, John does try them. But it's like his body has forgotten how to do the basic function and taste alone isn't enough of a motivator to get John enthusiastic about re-learning it.

They don't talk much until Merle escorts John back to his room—their room—after breakfast. Merle remakes the bed after picking up the blankets that John had left in a tangle on the floor. John sits on the couch where Merle had slept, shoulders slumped in something like defeat.

"I don't understand," John states without preamble. "You hated the fact that you had my name on your arm and now you've done nothing but be accommodating to me. What changed? What made your brand turn red?"

"Well, I mean, you're a different guy when you're not a giant force of world-ending darkness," Merle says, only half joking. "Listen, I couldn't even see my brand for about a decade, and then I lost it, so I can't tell you exactly how it went down. But when you tried to tell me how to win that fight and how to keep this world safe… I think maybe that helped." He shrugs. "And I'm a different dwarf now. I got kids. A bar. I'm an earl, y'know? Responsibility. Maybe I'm ready to figure out what this all means."

For a moment, John doesn't respond. He keeps his eyes downcast, maybe looking at his hands, maybe studying the floor. "My brand was always red," he says at last. "And I think I knew on some level that would make you dangerous. Remember how you said that maybe this all meant you were here to stop me? And how I'd scoffed? And now look at me. You were right and I was a fool. _Am_ a fool."

The bed sufficiently straightened, Merle sighs and settles himself on the couch next to John. He reaches over, twines his fingers with John's and tugs his arm close enough that Merle can rest his soulwood palm on John's brand. Warmth flows through him at the contact, and he feels some of the tension slough off John like dead skin. John lets himself lean against Merle.

"Hey," Merle says, keeping his voice soft. "We both did dumb things. We're gonna do more dumb things before we kick it, 'cause that's just a part of being alive. Let's just agree that we're gonna look out for each other when we do stupid shit."

He can feel the effect his words have, feel the glimmer of hope that blooms in John's chest, like a light in the dark. Fan it too hard and it'll snuff right out. Gotta feed it just right to make sure it stays alive. He's taught enough kids how to start a campfire to know that.

So instead, Merle leans against John in kind. "So, what _did_ your mama call you, if she didn't call you 'Johnny boy?'"

"She just called me Jonathan," John replies. "I didn't start going by 'John' until later. When I started my first career. As a public speaker."

"'Jonathan,' huh? Crazy. I think I'll stick with Johnny boy." He glances up at John's face in time to catch the smirk.

"You'll do no such thing," says John, fondness robbing his words of any bite.

"You gonna do somethin' about it?" Merle punctuates the question with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows.

He's not sure what the desired effect was—lightening of the mood, maybe; or getting a laugh out of John—but the thoughtful hum and appraising look probably weren't part of it. The sudden focus makes Merle's throat go dry, puts him in mind of those parleys after he'd gotten the brand when John had been toying with him. It isn't quite the same; he can still feel John's emotions and there is nothing particularly hostile. But still… Merle can't help but shift uncomfortably.

Rather than provide more of an answer than that, John changes subjects. "May I see your brand again, Merle?"

Unlike the last time John had asked, Merle is disinclined to make a fuss. He turns his arm over so John's name is once again exposed. The back of his hand keeps contact with John's own brand, though it's a little awkward in this position. He just… doesn't want to give the contact up completely.

John lays the hand not holding Merle's over the red letters of his name, and it's like a circuit closing. There's an electric rush that leaves Merle feeling like the room is spinning before it settles into a low thrum of current. He feels John taking a breath to steady himself, but it's no good. Merle can hear the pounding of a heartbeat even though he can't tell if it belongs to John or him. John shivers and Merle understands on a visceral level that it isn't from any sort of chill. Pan, is _this_ what he'd been missing out on for all those years? Is this what he could have had? What _they_ could have had?

He thinks he hears John say _I can't_ and _Not right now_ before John very carefully disentangles his arms from Merle's. John's breath comes in ragged gasps, though Merle realizes he isn't doing much better. "What—?" he manages.

"That's… that's what happens when brandmates do… well, that," John says. His voice trembles and Merle has no way to discern why.

"Well, shit."

"Yes," John agrees.


End file.
